


How much it tastes of you

by Gutter_Couch



Series: behind me, beneath me, beside me [6]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Come Eating, Dom/sub, M/M, Phone Sex, Rooftop masturbation, gentle dom foggy nelson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27100177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gutter_Couch/pseuds/Gutter_Couch
Summary: Matt is overstimulated on a roof in the rain. Through the phone, Foggy guides Matt back to a more stable state. Taste is a very grounding sense.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Series: behind me, beneath me, beside me [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1977175
Kudos: 20





	How much it tastes of you

**Author's Note:**

> If come eating is not your thing, you can skip this story and not lose any of the plot (such plot as there is in this series).

Matt is on his knees in his suit. The pants, leather and red and spotted with droplets of cool rain, are unbuckled and unzipped. They've slid down his very muscular thighs, trailing streaks of water, resting behind his knees.

There's a low wall around the perimeter of the roof and it's still raining. But Matt's hardly there at all. Because, somewhere out there in the city, Karen Page is coming down from the bite of a fierce orgasm, still humping her blanket in a half-hearted way and panting into a pillow.

Matt listens to her, a block away but right next to him. It's almost like he can feel her warmth, her trembling. It's almost as if he can taste her. 

But even now he's reaching for Foggy because he is Foggy's always and Foggy is steady for him. Right now Foggy is a heavy breathing, tinny through the cell phone that lies in the shadow of Matt's body. Foggy's waiting, patient, humming to himself just lightly. 

(He's really humming for Matt.)

Matt feels the rain hit his back, his shoulders. The water runs in small streams across the smooth expanse of his ass, down his legs. There's a little river of water channeled between his ass cheeks as he rocks on his knees. His knuckles are white as he gropes at the roof. 

He pants. His ass spasms around the toy. A moment ago the thing he so desperately needed pushed inside him, as deep as he could. With his powerful hands, he could push very, very deep.

He'd ridden the climax at Foggy's command, ramming himself in one long push, toy slick with his own salivia and the chilling rain.

Now, he rocks, slow: forward and back on his hands and knees. He feels the rain sliding between his cheeks, trickling down as his hole pumps and twitches like a mouth opening and closing, gasping around the toy that it swallowed so hard and so quick to set Matt over the edge at Foggy's command. Matt rocks and rocks, gets his breathing back under control.

The cold rain water trickles in. 

Finally he's through the last of his spasms, cum dripping and mixing with rain. He's a mess: a cold, dripping, soggy mess.

But Karen is sighing herself to a dreamy sleep. And Foggy's calm on the other end of the line. And the city is safe, for now.

"Fogs," Matt chokes out as he leans back into a crouch, his pants still slid down.

"Matty," Foggy says.

"I--" Matt begins, then reaches back and rubs a gloved thumb over the edge of the toy, peeking out from his rim. He strokes there, sore from earlier use and abuse, sore from this recent swift, sudden violation. He rocks his hips, opening and closing in a shallow, pulsing flutter around the toy.

"Shhh..." Foggy says.

"I've got you," Foggy says.

"Yes, Foggy," Matt says. He closes his eyes and leans back, still rubbing the gloved thumb along himself. The silicone toy offers modest resistance, but it's cooling in the rain.

"Matty, I want you to come back to me now," Foggy says.

"Fffggy."

Foggy doesn't scold Matt for being incoherent. Instead he hums again for a moment, waiting.

Matt rocks on his toy. "Fgggggy." He aches: sore in his back, in his shoulders. His skin is abraded, trickling cold rainwater. The ringed sphincter of his ass wants to clamp down on the toy and open up for it at the same time. So, he rocks and pets himself, letting his dick hang, peppered by raindrops, cooling and sticky and soft.

"Wan' you," Matt manages.

Foggy keeps humming, walking around their apartment. Matt reaches out his empty hand, scoops up the phone, cradles it close to his chin. He tunes out the sound of Karen's breathing becoming even with sleep.

"Foggy," he tries again, throat catching, "Foggy, wanna come home to you."

"Yes, baby. I got you."

Matt moans.

"Yes, Foggy," Matt says, rubbing gently, pressing in a little firmer. He is always listening for Foggy. 

"Good, that's good."

Matt nods, clutching the phone tight. Far, far away, he can feel Foggy's heartbeat. It's steady. He wants to go home.

"Are you in a safe place?" Foggy asks.

Matt does a quick sensory scan to confirm, then nods. "Yes, Foggy."

"Good, that's good."

"Please," Matt whispers.

"I've got you. I know you probably made a mess just now, so we have to get you cleaned up and focused. It's dangerous for you to be this far under in the suit."

"Yes, Foggy. I mean: Yes, there's a mess."

"I know. Here's what we'll do."

Matt shifts his weight, resting his knees fully into the roof. The little pebbles dig into his armored pants sparking tiny, sharp pricks of pain that help, just a bit. He settles the meat of his ass on either booted heel, the thick rubber sliding against his wet, naked ass cheeks. His skin is puckered with goosebumps, he realizes.

"Matt, if the plug is still in, it needs to come out."

Matt learned his lesson. He doesn't want to feel empty, he hates feeling empty, but he wants to be good for Foggy. "Yes, Foggy," he says and slips his thumb under the lip of the toy, reaching around its base with the rest of his fingers. The leather of his wet gloves offers a lot of friction but Foggy said to remove the toy, so he will listen. He will show Foggy he can be good, so good.

Matt's thumb presses up into his body. He encircles the toy, stretching the skin of his asshole, ignoring the shock of hot pain. He tightens his grip and pulls.

"Ah!" Matt drops the phone. He arches his back, causing the toy to yank down on his entrance. The cold rain trickles down burning his hot, abused hole. 

"Hey!" Foggy barks.

Matt freezes, asshole pulled down and out and tight around his toy, stretched and trembling. He can't open. He's clenching. He knows he needs to open to slip it out but Foggy--

"Slowly, Matt," Foggy says, voice back to gentle, calm. Matt lets the toy back in for a second, just to release the tension, then reaches for the phone with his other hand. He doesn't need the phone to his face to hear Foggy -- he can hear and feel Foggy from here, blocks away -- but he needs Foggy closer and the phone will have to do for now. So he cradles the phone to his cheek.

"Sorry, I'm sorry!" he begins, babbling, "You said no toy and I wanted to take it out. I was going to I was but-- but I'm tight right now and--"

"Shh..." Foggy hums.

"Foggy, I'm trying. I was going to take it out, I promise! I swear! I was bad but I'll be so good for you now."

"I know, I know. You just got overeager," Foggy soothes. "Goodness knows we've both seen how hungry your ass can get, even after coming."

Matt whines.

"Slow for me now, baby," Foggy says. "Take it out slow."

"Yes, Foggy."

"Breathe," Foggy reminds him.

Matt wraps his fingers back around his toy and tugs slowly, a long, slow pull. His legs are trembling and his asshole begins to twitch, a spasm around water and silicone and what's left of his saliva. He eases the plug out and hears, at the very end, a faint, gentle "pop" of the tip coming free.

The plug is in his hand and he feels cold and empty.

Matt heaves a deep gasp. "Okay, Foggy."

"Thank you, Matty."

"Okay, Foggy."

"You're doing well for me."

Matt whines. He will be good for Foggy. He'll show Foggy how good. He'll prove it to Foggy.

"Matt, rearrange yourself now. All those buckles and zippers and straps."

It's bait: normally when Foggy teases Matt complains that there are no zippers, as zippers are "loud" and "inefficient," but Matt just sighs and says "Yes, Foggy." He stands up, bare ass to the wind and rain, and hikes up his pants, trying to re-settle into his suit.

It's tricky with one hand but he doesn't want to let go of Foggy, doesn't want to move the phone from his cheek, or his hearing from Foggy's steady, steady heart. 

As Matt cradles his limp dick and ballsack, settling himself back into his cup, he lets out a small moan. All things considered, he's not terribly sore down below - he can handle a lot more abuse than simply coming a few times, but--

"What is it?" Foggy asks, suddenly concerned.

"Nothing," Matt says, shifting himself in the sticky, tacky, water mess in the cup. It's cold and smells like himself.

"Tell me," Foggy says, more stern. 

Matt whines. "It's... it's the cup."

"Ah," says Foggy, but Matt continues in a pleading voice.

"It's, the cup. It's sticky and tight and cramped and itchy and it smells like cum."

Foggy hums a moment.

"And--" Matt says, the stutters to a halt.

"And," says Foggy and Matt can hear the knowing, soft smile. "And," Foggy says, "it makes your mouth water?"

Matt nods, so relieved that Foggy gets it. Foggy is so good. Foggy is perfect. Foggy _understands_. Even when Matt isn't good, Foggy is taking care of him.

Matt nods. "Kinda," He says, so soft.

"Well, can't have you uncomfortable," Foggy says jovially, then amends: "Well, at least not for the run home anyway."

"Fogggggy," Matt whines, "wanna be home with you."

"Yes, right," Foggy brings up his businessman tone: bright, friendly, open, down-to-Earth. "You want to cuddle with me on the couch--"

"--yes," Matt interrupts.

"But you hate it when your cup is itchy."

"Yea," Matt frowns

"--and you're already licking your lips with the solution. That about the sum of it?"

Matt whines.

"Okay, Matty. Take your glove off."

"Yes, Foggy," Matt says, setting the plug on the roof and setting his fingertips into his mouth. The taste of himself and the rain is grounding. He bites the tip of the leather glove and yanks his hand free. "Mmm..." he says around the glove. 

"Press the side of the blade of your hand to yourself," Foggy says in a gentle, patient order.

"Mmm..."

"I want you to scrape yourself clean with your hand."

Matt bites the glove a bit tighter. "Mmm," he hums, affirmative. There are cold splatters of cum mixed with rainwater on his dick, in the cup, on the tops of his thighs. He scrapes his hand over the tops of his legs first, pressing down hard to clean and squeegee the bits that he can. It's slick and cool. It smells salty.

Though the glove fingertips in his mouth taste of grit and blood and sweat and the silicone of the anal plug, he catches traces of his seed, tangy, mingling with the taste of the city air in the rain. He drags the blade of the side of his hand upward, around under his balls, first up from one side, then back down the other side. He leaves a faint trail but he tries to get it all because Foggy said so.

The pressure of his hand sets off small, hot blooms of pain where Foggy had bitten and suckled the insider of his legs, where Matt had later fucked down into the loofa. Matt grunts when a bit of hair catches on the cuff of his suit.

"You got it?" Foggy asks, tiniest bit of concern slipping through.

"Mmm..." Matt says around the glove.

"Okay, you can lick your hand clean."

Matt's heart rate ticks up. It smells... it doesn't smell as good as Foggy. Nothing smells as good as Foggy, sweat and sweet salty tangy cum, but... the smell does remind Matt of Foggy, all the many, many times Foggy's made him come. He lifts his hand to his mouth.

The glove falls from his parted lips, hits the roof with a wet splat. Matt opens his mouth wide, jaw still sore from taking Foggy, from being forced open by Foggy. 

He wants this. He's suddenly, fiercely hungry for it. He extends his tongue, broad and flat and exquisitely sensitive, and licks a wide stripe up the side of his hand.

With an impact like fireworks the salt-sweet slams into him. His nerves tingle and his mouth floods with saliva. He groans and licks again, strong and flat and fierce. 

God, it's so good.

He laps his hand. He wants this.

Matt hears Foggy chuckle through the phone. "Enjoying yourself there, champ?" Foggy asks.

Matt groans again, his questing tongue goes pointed, tip burrowing between his splayed fingers. He flexes his fingers.

"More" Matt moans. "Foggy, please, I want--"

"Clean yourself up, already," Foggy says above the click of setting something plastic on their countertop. "I've got a couch that needs warming."

Matt slams his hand down on his dick, hissing a breath at the sharp twinge, and cups around himself, fingertips down around his balls, right at the base. He tightens his finger into a circle and draaaags, pulling the skin as the circle of his fingers scrapes him clean from his body all the way to the tip. He won't leave a drop behind. He'll be clean for Foggy.

There's a ring of cum and rain along his thumb as his hand twitches. The cave of his curled fingers flexes and he reaches up, tasting himself even now. He presses the circle of his sticky, filthy pointer finger and thumb to his mouth. He moans into his hand, inhaling through his mouth, tasting it, tasting it in the air, and then thrusts his tongue out into the circle of those fingers, coating his tongue on all sides. He feels it and tastes it, the rivers of saliva turning thick and tacky as his hot spit reawakens the thickened cum.

He pulls his tongue back in, presses it against the roof of his mouth, sliding his tongue in his mouth.

He hears it, swishing, swirling.

He want more. 

He thrusts his tongue back out, forcing his fingers apart, then tightens the curls of his fingers. He licks in and out, in and out. He wants it inside him, every drop. He brings in, he swallows down, the mix of saliva and cum. Deep down, down his throat, out with his tongue to lap again, bringing it into himself, warming it, making it part of him.

Matt moans louder. He's not hard but his dick is twitching and tingling. He's tasting himself, and it's so good. He wants it. He wants it to coat the inside of his mouth, deep down.

Licking and licking, Matt tightens his fingers. He feels the rain, wet on his upturned cheeks.

There's nothing left on his hand but saliva. He's cleaned his hand. He's eaten of himself.

Matt whines.

"You're doing good, Matty," Foggy says. "Ready to come home now?" he asks. 

Matt licks his lips: salty. He swallows. His mouth is a constant stream of water.

"No, Foggy," he says, so soft.

Foggy sighs, trying to be patient. 

Matt interrupts, "I want to come home to you, Foggy, I do, but you said--"

"Hmm?"

"The cup, Foggy," Matt says.

"Well, hurry it up then," Foggy says. Matt can hear him shuffling in the background noise of the phone. Maybe opening a cupboard?

"Yes, Foggy," Matt says. It's slurred: his mouth is watering like a dam burst. Drool slides down his cheek.

He reaches down, awkwardly fumbles with one hand with the sides of the cup, detaches it from were it was pulled down and tucked against his knee in the leg of his suit.

Foggy's rummaging in the fridge now, maybe? and humming.

Matt works the cup free. He can hear the faintest sloshing, just the smallest bit of trapped liquids: a soup of sweat and cum mixed in equal measure. The smell is overpowering as it rams into his nostrils. He lifts the cup out of the pant leg and inhales through his nose and falls back onto his ass with a gasp.

Foggy is humming a tune. 

Matt's nostrils flare. He can taste it already. He groans, but it's a mistake: the motion parts his lips and he can taste more. All that taste, right there, for him.

Matt's hearing is phenomenal. As he lifts the cup to his face with a trembling hand he can hear each raindrop that hits the cup, slides down the side, chills the liquid swampy mess there. He can hear each raindrop that hits the surface of the tiny puddle of thick liquid. And he can hear Foggy, in the hollow of the kitchen, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon.

Foggy's making him dinner, or cocoa, maybe. He loves Foggy's cocoa and he's so hungry for it.

Matt growls and lifts the cup to his lips, a literal cup now. He tilts his head back, parts his lips, opens his mouth wide wide wide to the sky. And he drains the liquid straight down his throat, sighing into the rain.

There is very little liquid, and it's slimy and thick. But Matt is open for it. He receives it, and he is so grateful.

His hand falls limp to the top of his leg, the cup falls to the roof, and he keeps his head up to the sky, smiling in the rain.


End file.
